


Something Evil

by whacrobat



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, American Sign Language, Blood, Body Horror, Crushes, Deaf Character, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, High School, Hispanic Character, Human Biology, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Monsters, Small Towns, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whacrobat/pseuds/whacrobat
Summary: You wonder how long it takes to get a car fixed. Lucho’s still against the car, staring at you, noticing the way you bit your lip nervously. Your brother hasn’t come out of the lobby yet.I should’ve gone in with him,you think.Maybe it’s super crowded in there.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)





	Something Evil

**Author's Note:**

> In which things go wrong.

The first thing you notice is the truly human spine dangling from the kitchen door. It’s nearly seventy-one centimeters long, wiped clean of blood and grime—not a plastic model, though, as it faintly reeks like the insides of a person would and it feels smooth when you brush your fingers down from T1 to T12, almost fascinated but not quite enthralled. The whole thing is hanging by a thin string on a metal hook screwed to the eggshell white ceiling, swaying back and forth every time the wind blows. 

There’s a slight fracture in L3, but you pay no mind to it once your mother enters the kitchen. She ignores your staring—she knows you want an explanation but she’ll never give one like always. “I like to keep things vague,” she’d tell you. “That way, your imagination will stir up something that isn’t of this world.” 

Your mother, well, she was an enigma. You never knew her real age, and when you’d ask she’d make a diversion or just pat your head, smile tightly and leave the room, which bothered you. How could you tell if she was your real mother or not? The answer was clear: you couldn’t, and never will. She certainly  _ looked  _ old enough—her hair was beginning to gray, and her eyes wept of exhaustion. From what, you didn’t know. It was hard to get any information about her or from her, anyway, and you stopped trying to a long time ago. 

Mother turns to you while she stirs a disgusting-looking mixture of  _ something _ in a plastic, worn-out turquoise bowl. “Before you ask, yes, that’s your father’s spine, and no, he’s fine without it.” 

When you don’t respond, Mother rambles on about the benefits of giving up body parts to the ‘beautiful creatures’ living God knows where all while shoveling the rancid-smelling globs of yellowing junk in her mouth. You knew there were raw eggs in there, of course. Mother always did things like that, but you wondered why she wasn’t getting extremely sick from any of it. She was weird, and she was  _ not  _ your real mother and you knew that, too. 

“That’s great, Mom,” you say, almost choking on the title you’d given her. “I’m sure Dad is happy about it.” 

“Oh, he is,” she replies around a mouthful of stuff that looks like it’s turning black. “Why don’t you go get your brother so you two can go get his car fixed?” 

You groan unenthusiastically, forgetting about the conversation you had with your parents last week, to which you agreed to help your brother bring his beat-up truck to the auto shop downtown. When he asked you why you couldn’t answer. You still have no damned clue why you agreed to any of that. “Why can’t he go and do it himself? I’ve got things to do, too!”

“Like what?” 

Your face burns as you scramble to find a lie to tell her. “Like...um—”

The light flickers above your heads for a split second, and the sweltering heat makes you want to peel your skin off. You don’t doubt that your mother would happily agree to help, and the thought makes you want to laugh. Your old, too-big t-shirt sticks to your shoulders and you’re parched of both water and whatever the hell ‘normal’ is in this stupid little town. 

“You’re going with him,” Mother says through gritted teeth. They’re stained black from what she’d finished slurping down, and she ungracefully wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. You notice she isn’t wearing her wedding ring, but you’re smart enough to not push her even further with questions. “Now go get dressed. I expect you to be out of the house in fifteen minutes.” 

You grumble under your breath as you trudge upstairs, not bothering to make yourself some toast to carry up to your room. The wallpaper is an ugly floral-printed one—yes, exactly like the ones that grandparents are thought to have. The yellow daisies are turning into a sickly yellow color reminiscent of vomit, making your stomach curl. You’d offered to help repaint the walls and as expected, Mother always declined, saying she wanted the house to stay the way it was when you and your family moved here. It seemed like those daisies wilted a lot more now that you chose to stay upstairs more often, not wanting to deal with the one who called you her child. 

You stop in front of your brother’s closed bedroom door, almost hesitating. You didn’t want to go to that stupid auto shop anyway. All you’d do is be miserable in the lobby, watching your brother fail at flirting with the mechanic’s daughter—Diana? Darcy?—picking at the almost-healed scabs on your arms, and hope to spot the cute boy who usually showed up every time you and your brother went to get an oil change. He should just trash that truck and buy a new car that isn’t from one of your uncles, and if he does he’ll just be in the same situation again. You guarantee it. 

“I’m at the door,” you say loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t want to be late, do you?” 

He doesn’t respond. 

“Diana might be there,” you singsong, and the door swings open. There stands your gangly seventeen-year-old brother, wearing an old white shirt and faded jeans, looking annoyed at your presence. 

“Her name is Dixie, kiddo,” he grins toothily. Not at you, though, at the thought of the boyish redhead with a multitude of freckles and a motorcycle—Earl Bischoff’s kid. “But you wouldn’t know that ‘cause you keep eyeing that one guy.”

“I don’t,” You lie, your face and ears flaming from embarrassment, “it’s not like that, and you know it.”

“Mhm,” your brother nudges you in your ribs and smirks. “C’mon, we gotta hurry.” 

The two of you rush downstairs and slip on your boots, tying them up the best you both could before grabbing the keys and heading out in the yard. The grass was yellow, the petunias were dying, and the massive tree near the fence drooped as the temperature rose. You wished summer would be over with so it wouldn’t be so unbearably hot, but you dealt with it anyway like all the other summers before this one, so you’d manage. 

Once your brother starts the car you both climb in and are hit with the strong smell of leather, weed, and sweat. You didn’t mind it, it wasn’t as bad as the time when Miss Josette’s dog got ripped open and devoured in her own house—people speculate that it was  _ her  _ who ate the dog, but it was still pretty horrible. She covered it up, saying coyotes ate Buck overnight but there weren’t any coyotes nearby as far as you knew. 

“So,” your brother drawls out teasingly. Before he says anything else you know  _ exactly  _ what he’s going to say. “About the boy at the shop...what’s his name?” 

You fold your arms over your chest and feel your face heat up. “Okay, listen, I—”

“What’s his name?” He urges playfully, trying to hold back a smile. “I know you know it! Don’t be shy!” 

You let out a long sigh of exasperation. Of all the things he could’ve asked about, why was  _ this  _ the topic he chose? Plus, your brother seemed like the type of guy to not care who you went out with as long as they treated you well and didn’t do anything sketchy (which he was), but even so, you haven’t gone out with anyone since, well,  _ ever.  _

“His name is...uh, Lucho,” you say after a bout of silence. You feel your face staying warm as soon as you say his name. “I’ve seen him at school, too.”

Your brother’s grin widens. “Have you thought about him?” 

Without thinking you slap him on the shoulder, your face growing hotter at his tone of voice. “I don’t like what you’re implying, and not like that, you idiot.”

“Sure,” your brother replies, turning his head to focus on the road. “We’ll see.”

It’s silent when your brother pulls into the parking lot of the auto shop beside a gas pump. He climbs out and you stay in the car, still shaken up over your brother’s comments. He wouldn’t like it if you did that to him about Dixie, right? You sink in the passenger’s seat, the leather sticking to your bare thighs. 

Just as you turn your head to stare at the passing cars, someone knocks on the hood of the truck, and you jump, squeaking like a near-dead mouse. 

Lucho leans against the door, smiling warmly at you. He’s wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt and ripped jeans caked in dirt. His feet are bare, as per usual. He brushes his brown curls from his face and he’s signing something to you but you’re not paying attention at all.

  
“Huh?” You blink and your vision focuses. “Sorry, I zoned out for a little bit.” 

“I said it’s nice to see you again,” Lucho smiles still, looking off to the side. You can see the smile he’s trying to contain on his lips. “How’ve you been?” 

“My dad’s spine is hanging up in the kitchen,” you blurt out, and he laughs. “It has a fracture in L3.”

“I believe that. My little sister has hers in the living room. C1 to C4 is split open, though. Don’t know why or how.”

“Oh, my God, is she okay?” You feel anxious, it’s bubbling in the pit of your stomach. “How old is she?” 

“She’s doing okay, she’s only nine. Always getting into the garbage, vomiting weird black stuff, it’s…” Lucho stops signing, searching for a word. “Just weird.”

“My mom eats that stuff all the time.” 

Lucho wrinkles his nose. “Smells awful, too, right? Like cat piss and sewage water.” 

You can’t help but smile. “Bingo.” 

You wonder how long it takes to get a car fixed. Lucho’s still against the car, staring at you, noticing the way you bit your lip nervously. Your brother hasn’t come out of the lobby yet.  _ I should’ve gone in with him,  _ you think.  _ Maybe it’s super crowded in there.  _

“Are you waiting for your brother again?” 

Lucho’s light tap on your shoulder snaps you out of your thoughts. You prop your chin onto your hand and nod wordlessly. The Sun beats down on you from above, and  _ wow, _ are you sweaty. 

“Do you want to go hang out until he gets back?” Lucho cocks his head a little, rocking back and forth on his heels. “It’s cool if you don’t, since you’re pretty busy and all.” 

“You should—you should come with me,” you say instead. “Inside the shop, I mean. To...to check on him.”

For a second you see Lucho’s face pale. He’s tight-lipped now, leaving you to panic mentally. Did you say something wrong? Does he have a grudge against your brother? Hell, you’re not even sure they’ve met properly before.  _ How could someone have hatred for a person they’ve never met? _

“Okay,” he smiles weakly, his expression slightly conflicted. “We’ll see if he’s in there, say ‘hi’, and come back out here.” 

You agree to the plan and step out of the car, shielding your eyes from the too-bright sun overhead. Lucho is short compared to you, with moles speckled over the light brown skin of his hands and face. You can’t exactly tell if he’s nervous or just hot from the weather, and when you scrutinize him closer, you can see that his eyes are the darkest shade of brown you’ve ever seen—almost black. 

“Your eyes are nice,” you say as you open the door for him. It’s made of glass, probably newly installed, with a monochrome wooden sign that read  _ OPEN _ hanging in the center by a hook. “They remind me of obsidian, y’know?”

You both step inside and flinch at the sudden coolness of the lobby. Everything is stark-white, almost sterile. It smells  _ wrong _ , not like grease or anything metallic, but sharply sweet, like bleach and iodoform. The receptionist’s desk is empty. Usually, there’d be a middle-aged woman sitting there making phone calls or writing down appointments on little slips of paper—you think her name was Frances—but she’s not there, which is a little odd. 

The tile floor has specks of dried bloodstains in the cracks, trailing into a hallway with dim lights. You’re becoming irritated—couldn’t this entire thing have waited until next week? 

“Where the fuck is he?” You don’t waste time stomping down the hallway with Lucho following, and you’re only met with a series of closed doors with small blue signs near them, reading things like  _ Session Room 1  _ and so on. Underneath that is Braille neatly placed in a straight line. Your fingers grab the doorknob and it’s cold, so cold that you immediately yank your hand away, hissing in pain. 

“Does it hurt?” Lucho’s brows scrunch together in concern, and your anger fades at his expression. He takes your hands in his own, squinting. Blisters are forming on your palm, bubbling up in a way that makes you want to itch them off. 

“It’s burning, I don’t know why,” you grimace, clutching your wrist. “Stupid door.” 

“It’s okay. We’ll fix it after we find your brother.”

The door to Session Room 3 is cracked open enough for you to peek through. A girl is sitting in a leather chair, extremely pale with her eyes sunken in. You recognize her after spotting the tufts of dyed blue hair spilling from the black bandana tied over her head—the girl you sat behind in class. “Nellie,” you whisper, hoping you’ll catch her attention. She doesn’t respond at first, so you call her a little louder. This time she cranes her head at you, straightening her posture. She looks fatigued from whatever she’d been doing previously. Almost...dead. You wouldn’t be surprised if she was. 

“Come here,” Lucho signs to her. “We have to find their brother.”

Nellie stands up from the chair shakily, and you both rush in to help. She’s dressed sloppily in a worn-out hoodie and a patchwork ankle-length skirt with too many tears at the hem. It’s cold in the room, too, which only makes the blisters on your hand burst open and multiply. None of this made any sense to you, but it didn’t matter. 

“Have you seen him anywhere in here?” You ask, your teeth chattering. “He’s a little tall, he’s wearing a white shirt and jeans—”

“Oh, I saw him with Dr. Cain,” Nellie says after a long bout of silence, “he said he wanted to see it for the first time.” Her voice is airy like she’s off in another world. 

You don’t touch the door handle when you and Lucho tumble out with Nellie’s arms slung over both of your shoulders and instead push it open with your hip. As usual, you’re wondering what ‘it’ is but don’t bother asking. When you look at Nellie for an explanation, her porcelain-colored face turns pink, expecting that you’d want to know exactly what she meant. 

She doesn’t tell you.  _ Typical.  _

The three of you trudge down the hallway further and stop at a large black door that reads ‘basement’ in capital letters. Everything about this is sketchy, and you hate to admit it, but you’re fucking  _ terrified _ . 

The door opens from the other side and there’s a man in a white lab coat standing in front of you. His face is gentle, his eyes are kinder than Mother’s. He smiles but it looks... _ off _ , somehow. Too many teeth, maybe.  _ Dr. Marcus Cain, M.D.,  _ his nametag reads in pristine white lettering on the pocket of his coat. 

“There you are,” he crouches down in front of you and touches your cheek. His palm is cold, just like everything else in this place. “Your brother has told me so much about you.  _ Too much _ , in fact. I was afraid I’d know you like the back of my hand.”

You grasp his wrist with your normal hand and dig your nails into a section of skin, drawing up blood. It trickles down your arm in waves, turning red to black in an instant. “He wouldn’t dare,” you say, gritting your teeth. Your nails are so far deep into his wrist that you can feel the tendons there, almost close enough to graze the bone. 

Dr. Cain doesn’t look fazed. He’s still, allowing you to tear at his skin. Your hands are covered in his blood, drying almost instantly. Behind you, Lucho holds Nellie by his shoulders, paler than ever at the sight of Dr. Cain’s dissected wrist. The blisters on your other hand have traveled up your arm, bursting every few minutes with blood and pus but you don’t care. You’re angry and you don’t even know  _ why.  _

“You’re an interesting little creature,” says Dr. Cain in a sweet voice. “Fueled by a hatred you don’t understand.”

You want to break every bone in his stupid body. You despise this man for a reason you can’t describe. “You don’t know me like my brother does.”

“You’re filled to the brim with a dozen emotions,” Dr. Cain singsongs, lifting a finger to drag a sharp nail down your cheek, “it’s quite fascinating.”

You look beside you and Lucho is there, and he looks a little nauseous when his hand squeezes yours. Nellie is supported by his weight, her blue hair sticking to her forehead from sweat.  _ How is she sweating in a place that’s twenty degrees?  _ “What did you do to him?”

“ _ I  _ didn’t do anything,” Dr. Cain smiles awkwardly, with too many teeth and a decaying tongue. “He brought this onto himself.” 

As if on cue, the basement door creaked open. 

He stood there, clambering out like a puppet on a set of strings—disjointed and foreign. His skin was a tapestry of bruises, all swelled up and painted blue and dark purple. His tongue was split open, the skin of his mouth bleeding and cracked. His fingernails were all torn apart, the skin scaly and dry. His left eye was puffy and blue-black, spotted with gaping holes that trailed down his jaw, his clothes torn and bloody. You recognized that shirt—frayed at the sleeves, stained in red. 

_ Your brother.  _

Dr. Cain smiled in that weird way of his. “Abnormal, awry, agonized abomination!”

Your brother looked distant as he stared at you. “ Something evil took hold of me, and I let it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this dumpster fire! I appreciate it!


End file.
